"Very well," he said, beckoning a taxicab in to the curb. "What's the address?"
Max gave it sullenly.
"So long," he added morosely as Whitaker opened the cab door; "sorry I ever laid eyes on you."
Whitaker hesitated. "How about that supper?" he inquired. "Is it still on?"
"How in blazes do I know? Come round to the Beaux Arts and find out for yourself—same's I'll have to."
"All right," said Whitaker doubtfully. He nodded to the chauffeur, and jumped into the cab. As they swung away he received a parting impression of Max, his pose modelled on the popular conception of Napoleon at Waterloo: hands clasped behind his back, hair in disorder, chin on his chest, a puzzled frown shadowing his face as he stared sombrely after his departing guest.
Whitaker settled back and, oblivious to the lights of Broadway streaming past, tried to think—tried with indifferent success to prepare himself against the unhappy conference he had to anticipate. It suddenly presented itself to his reason, with shocking force, that his attitude must be humbly and wholly apologetic. It was a singular case: he had come home to find his wife on the point of marrying another man—and she was the one entitled to feel aggrieved! Strange twist of the eternal triangle!...
He tried desperately, and with equal futility, to frame some excuse for his fault.
Far too soon the machine swerved into Fifty-seventh Street, slipped halfway down the block, described a wide arc to the northern curb and pulled up, trembling, before a modest modern residence between Sixth and Seventh avenues.
Reluctantly Whitaker got out and, on suspicion, told the chauffeur to wait. Then, with all the alacrity of a condemned man ascending the scaffold, he ran up the steps to the front door.